


Writer's Block

by Hokum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hokum/pseuds/Hokum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst attempting to write his episode of the third season of Sherlock, Mark Gatiss encounters a severe case of writers block. Ian tries to help. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this seems a bit rushed but I wrote it really quickly and just wanted to put it up. Writing about real life people is not something I would normally do. However after having a real life encounter with Mark and Ian, they were just too adorable together for me not to write this. Enjoy!

 

 

“Sherlock Holmes was-“

No.

“When Sherlock Holmes returned-“

No, that didn't sound right either.

“John Watson-“

Delete.

Sherlock and John-“

Ugh.

To say Mark Gatiss was stressed was a vast understatement. The third season of Sherlock would begin shooting in only a matter of weeks and he felt like his mind had shut up shop and gone on holiday. Steven had finished his weeks ago and Mark was finding it increasingly more difficult to dodge questions about his own script. He had formulated a rather cunning plan which included not leaving his house, growing a beard, wearing the same pair of pyjamas for days on end and having no contact with anyone apart from his husband until he had finished. He had been wearing the same pair of raggedy pyjamas for a few days now and his beard was beginning to border on tramp territory but he hadn't gone completely mad yet. Although, Ian had left rather pointedly left a clean pair of pyjamas on his side of the bed this morning and refused to answer the telephone anymore after Mark and made him lie to various BBC officials whilst hissing “I'm not in!!” and ducking down out of sight of the windows.

“You know they can’t see you, don’t you?” Ian had asked when he went to answer the phone just as Mark darted out of view behind the sofa.

It probably wasn't much fun being married to a borderline recluse who currently looked like a cross between a homeless person and an escaped mental patient. If only Bunsen could have learnt to walk himself he would never have to leave his little sanctuary. Ian hadn't said anything but he knew that he had been a bit dejected when Mark had bailed on a night out to the theatre a few days ago. Instead Mark had spent the night staring at a computer screen eating biscuits and drinking copious amounts of tea whilst Ian had gone to bed alone. Again. A sudden wave of guilt hit him. Once Sherlock started filming they would only have a small amount of time on the weekend to spend together. Now not only was he a useless writer, he was a bad husband too.

He stared dejectedly back at his computer screen and sighed heavily. It wasn't looking good. So far he had written four words: “Sherlock”, “John” and “Baker Street”. Not exactly the thrilling opening to the third season of a critically acclaimed television show he had been hoping for. Maybe he should just give up now, grow his beard a bit longer, take Ian and Bunsen and elope somewhere that didn't have televisions or access to twitter. Yes, perhaps that would be a better idea than locking himself in his house for months on end. Bunsen would be perfectly happy with that, just as long as he had his favourite ball and somewhere to run around and chase things. Ian might be a bit harder to convince. Perhaps if he plied his husband with champagne, put ABBA on loop and kidnapped him in the middle of the night, he might just get away with it. Slumping forward Mark rubbed his eyes tiredly, it was gone midnight and the only light in the house was the reflection from his computer screen. It was starting to give him a headache. He thought he heard a noise coming from the kitchen but brushed it off, the only sound he had heard all evening was the rather loud snoring sound coming from Bunsen’s basket beside the fireplace.  
Mark went back to staring at the computer screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard should any flood of creativity happen to come his way.

Suddenly plate baring three hot crumpets with a healthy dollop of jam on each of them appeared in front of him.

“What are you doing up? I didn't wake up you did I?” Mark asked as his husband stood beside him and handed him the plate of food.

“No, after all these years I've grown used to you prowling around in the dead of night. I thought you could use a pick-me-up,” Ian said as he peered over Marks shoulder to see what he had written so far, “Going well then I see.”

Marks nostrils flared as the warm scent of butter and raspberry jam wafted towards him. His stomach gave a loud rumble as he picked up the first crumpet and practically shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

“Every time I try and think of something to write my mind just goes blank. We’re supposed to start shooting in a few weeks; Steven had his written ages ago!” Mark said thickly through a mouthful of jam, all too well aware that he was starting to sound like a petulant school boy.

“It’ll come to you. Remember that time you thought of that entire League of Gentlemen sketch in the bath the night before you had to start filming?” Ian said as he reached down and picked up the third crumpet Mark had left.

“I also remember I would have gotten that written a lot sooner if you hadn't been-“

“I don’t seem to remember you complaining at the time,” Ian countered.

“I'm not complaining! I was merely saying that if you hadn't been such a distraction I would have been finished a lot sooner,” Mark grumped as he set the plate down.

Ian sighed and rolled his eyes as he perched on the end of Marks desk, “You all ways get grumpy when you’re hungry.”

Mark opened his mouth to retort but then thought the better of it. He _was_ being mean and it wasn't fair. Especially to someone who had gotten out of bed at one o clock in the morning to make him crumpets with his favourite jam on.

“Why do you all ways make three of these when you know I’ll never eat them all?” Mark asked as he reached for a second crumpet.

“Because you can never eat three all at once and I can’t eat two in a row, therefore three is a perfect number of crumpets one should make at any given time,” Ian said as he brushed a bit of jam off Mark’s chin.

“You’re such a mush,” Mark grumbled but he couldn't stop himself from smiling. He loved his husband very much and he was annoyed with himself for not spending as much time with Ian as he should have recently.  
  


"Come to bed,” Ian said as he nudged Mark’s leg with his toes.

“I will, in a bit. I just need to at least try and make a go of this tonight.”

“No offence love but so far all you've written are two names and a street address, which incidentally you've spelt wrong,” said Ian as he peered over at the computer screen,

“Unless that’s your idea of a dynamic plot twist, I think you deserve a night off tonight.”

Mark leaned forward and squinted at the screen only to find that Sherlock and John had apparently moved after the second season and were now living in “Bazer Street”. Letting out a frustrated groan he leant forward, hooked his arm around Ian’s waist and pulled his husband onto his lap.

“Can you think of anything?” Mark asked desperately.

Ian furrowed his brow in a way that Mark always found utterly adorable and thought for a moment.

“Just don’t say send them to an ABBA concert,” Mark warned as the other man started to speak.

“If you don’t want my help,” Ian said grumpily as he started to get up from Mark’s lap.

“No, wait! I'm sorry!” Mark said apologetically as he pulled Ian back down onto his lap, “Stay here with me, just for a bit.”

They sat in silence for a while as Mark stared intently into the back of his husbands head, as though he just might be able to suck an idea out of it.

After what seemed like an age to Mark, Ian seemed to have come up with something.

“What about… Sherlock: The Musical?” Ian said trying not to laugh as Mark let out a frustrated groan.

“Let me guess this musical episode wouldn't happen to include any ABBA songs would it?” Mark asked.

“Maybe,” Ian said sheepishly.

“I can assure you that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would not want Sherlock Holmes, one of the greatest literary creations, to go around singing “Gimmie! Gimme! Gimmie! A Man After Midnight.”

“Why not?! It’s a great song! Don’t tell me there hasn't ever been a bit of singing and dancing in a Sherlock Holmes story before?”

“No, there hasn't. How could you possibly think that anyway, I've explained all the key plot points of the Sherlock Holmes cannon before,” Mark said in a rather hurt tone.

“To be honest with you love, you talk about Sherlock an awful lot. Whilst I support you in everything you do, sometimes it’s difficult not to just tune you out when you start going off on one.”

“Is that your polite way of telling me you don’t always pay attention to me?” Mark asked.

“Yes. I would also like to point out at this juncture that I never complain when you drag me to horror museums, Dr Who conventions or tell me terrifying stories about serial killers when you’re not here and I'm alone in the house.”

“OK point taken. All though I'm pretty sure you just agree to these things so you can finally convince me to go to that ridiculous ABBA museum in Sweden.”

“It is not ridiculous! It’s a museum dedicated to-“Ian started until he was cut off by Mark pulling him into a kiss.

“Come to bed, I miss you,” Ian said again as he nuzzled the side of Marks face.

“Fine, I suppose you’re right,” Mark said dejectedly, it wasnt like he was going to make any further progress tonight. 

“I'm always right.”

“All right there’s no need to get cocky,” Mark said as Ian started giggling, “Cocky? Really? You’re such a child,” he said amusedly as he patted his husband’s thigh.

Mark switched of his laptop as Ian hopped up from his lap. Hand in hand they made their way upstairs through the darkened house.

“I still think the musical is a good idea. Benedict would look great in flairs,” Ian said happily as they climbed the stairs.

“If I can’t think of anything else I’ll suggest it to Steven.” Mark said, which at the rate things were going, Sherlock: The Musical was looking more and more likely.

“You can shave that beard off tomorrow as well by the way. It’s giving me a rash.” Ian said as he threw Mark a clean pair of pyjamas.

Mark stopped changing out of his old pyjamas and peered over at his husband.

“Sorry love, I didn't realise the beard had been scratching your face.”

“I didn't say the rash was on my face,” Ian said rather pointedly as he got into bed.

“Oh, right. It’ll be gone by tomorrow I promise,” Mark said, blushing a little, as he slid into bed beside Ian.

Fifteen minutes later Mark was tucked up in bed and trying unsuccessfully to stifle a massive yawn. He rolled over and wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist, pulled him close and kissed the top of his head.

“Sorry for being mean earlier, I shouldn't have taken it out on you,” he mumbled into the top of Ian’s hair.

“S’fine, you’re under a lot of pressure at the moment. You can make it up to me later,” Ian mumbled sleepily as he burrowed up against Marks chest.

“Well that’s still no excuse. I promise I won’t let my work take over like this again."

After waiting for a few minutes and getting no response, Mark looked down to see that his husband had fallen asleep. Carefully leaning over Ian's sleeping form, he'd be in big trouble if he woke him up, Mark switched off the bedside lamp and settle back onto his pillows. His last desperate thought before he driffted off to sleep was that at least he still had a few weeks to go before he had a complete breakdown and had to confess to everyone that he hadn't managed to write his script. 

 

 *************************************************************************************************

Jerking out of what had suprisingly been a very deep and peaceful sleep, Mark sat bolt upright in bed. It was as if someone had switched a light bulb on; suddenly everything was slotting into place. Leaning over he shook Ian roughly by the shoulder.

“IAN! Wake Up!"

Ian awoke with a start and looked wildly around only to find Mark grinning at him madly in the darkness.

"What? Whats wrong?" Ian asked frantically.

"I've got it; I know what to write for the first episode! I’ll start it with-"

 

 

The rest of Marks sentence was cut off as Ian ellbowed him really hard in the ribs. 

“Ouch! What was that for?! Never mind. I'm going to have Sherlock-“

"I thought we we're being burgled or something!!" Ian groaned as he flopped back down onto the bed.

"Burgled?! No, what I was trying to explain to you was-" 

“It is five o'clock in the morning. If I hear the words “Sherlock” or “John” come out of your mouth before the sun has come up you won’t live to write season four,” Ian said in a deadly tone that Mark knew better than to mess with.

“But don’t you want to hear what I've come up with?” Mark asked somewhat put out. Ian was normally his biggest asset when it came to writing and he valued his husband’s opinion very highly.

“No. Go away and talk to Bunsen,” Ian said grumpily.

 

“Right. Well... I’ll just… go downstairs then…” Mark muttered as he leant over and kissed his husband on the top of the head before making his way downstairs.  Ian mearly grunted and rolled over onto Mark’s vacated warm spot, pulling the duvet over his head and muttering what sounded suspiciously like threats of harm if Mark dared to wake him up again. Maybe he would have better luck once Ian had a good night’s sleep. 

Bunsen was still snoring away in his basket, apparently undisturbed by the domestic that had happended right above his head, as Mark went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

A few minutes later Mark carried a cup of steaming hot tea over to his desk, switched on his laptop and began to type….


End file.
